


I Remember the First Time We Wished upon Parallel Lines

by HermioneGirl96



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Crying, Depression, Dialogue Heavy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gen, Getting Together, Heavy Angst, Men Crying, POV First Person, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Present Tense, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 01:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16903470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermioneGirl96/pseuds/HermioneGirl96
Summary: Simon and Baz talk each other out of suicide during November of eighth year, a couple weeks after Baz returns. TW: Suicide attempt.





	1. Simon

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the fun. song "All Alright."
> 
> TW: THIS FIC CONTAINS A SUICIDE ATTEMPT. Please don't read it if you think it will make you feel worse. If you are suicidal, please reach out and get help. In the U.S., the suicide hotline is 1-800-273-8255.
> 
> For some reason, I'm celebrating my first full year in nearly a decade without a serious suicidal spell with . . . an incredibly angsty fic in which Simon and Baz talk each other out of suicide. I'm not sure if it's realistic, but I have been there, so I have some idea of what I'm talking about? Anyway, here goes.

Baz has stayed in every night so far this week. It's been torture, for both of us. Not just in the sense that we've been goading each other, either. I can tell he's been getting thirstier and thirstier. And I haven't been able to carry out my plan.

I've been thinking about this plan for weeks, ever since the Mage tried to get me to leave Watford at the beginning of the year. My resolve hardened when Agatha broke up with me. I just hadn't quite worked up the nerve before Baz got back, and since then it's been harder to find the privacy. The last thing I want is to have to _explain_ myself.

I keep almost apologizing to Penny. I'm rubbish at keeping secrets from her. But I have to keep this a secret, or else she'll try to talk me out of it, and that'll just make everything worse for both of us, because I won't let her talk me out of it, and then she'll feel like a failure. Afterward. And I'll have her grief on my conscience even more than I already do.

But tonight, finally, Baz heads out for the night. I know it's my chance. I wait for about 20 minutes, just in case he forgets something and comes back, and then I leave the room. It's cold—it's November—but I'm just wearing my button-down and my uniform trousers. I don't want extra clothing in case it acts like a cushion.

I don't pass anyone on my way out of Mummer's House. I walk along the path past the White Chapel and into the Weeping Tower. Everything is silvered with moonlight, empty and eerie, and the wind makes me shiver. The spiral staircase takes me several minutes to climb, and each step leaves me more out of breath, which in turn makes me more determined to carry out my plan. What kind of hero am I if I can't even climb stairs without getting winded?

I reach the top of the stairs, panting and sweating, and step into the observatory. The windows are glassless, just empty holes in the masonry, which is why I came here. That's the whole point.

There's a figure at one of the windows. They have one foot on the ledge. And I recognize that hair. And I can hear—just barely over my own loud breath and the blood pounding in my ears—sobbing, coming from their (his) direction.

"Baz?"

He puts his foot down on the floor, turns to me, and sneers, but there are tear tracks on his cheeks, and the moon is even reflecting off rivers of snot running from his nose to his upper lip. "Snow. Followed me here, did you?" His voice is wobbly.

"Uh, what? I—no—I mean, yes, of course. Why else would I be at the Weeping Tower after curfew?"

He narrows his eyes. "You tell me, Snow. Why else _would_ you be here?" His voice is a little more under control now.

I don't know what to say.

"Use your words, Snow."

"I—"

He whips out his wand. " _ **The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!**_ "

"I was going to jump out of the tower. I want to kill myself," I say. The words literally force their way out of my throat, and I have to cough afterward.

Baz crosses the observatory in two long strides and grabs my arms roughly. "Snow. Simon. You can't." His voice catches on the last word.

"Why not?" Now I'm the one sneering. I think. I'm not sure if I've really mastered the expression.

"Don't you have to save the World of Mages?"

"You know I can't do that. I'm the worst Chosen One to ever be chosen. God, how often do you tell me that? Just because you're a git doesn't mean it's not true. I know I'm hopeless. Even the Mage doesn't seem to think I'm fit to save anyone anymore. He hasn't talked to me since the beginning of the year, when he tried to force me out of school! Agatha's given up on me too. The only person in the world who loves me is Penny and I know I'm just holding her back."

"That's not true." Baz's voice is low, almost a whisper, but it's more intense than I've ever heard it, so intense that I think it might be a spell.

I laugh, feeling a bit hysterical. "Yes it is."

"No, it's not. _I love you_ , Simon Snow. And I never meant it when I said you were the worst Chosen One to ever be chosen."

My head spins. I might have fallen over if Baz didn't have my arms in a death grip. " _What?_ "

"Fuck," Baz mutters, looking at our feet. Then he looks up again, meeting my eyes. "I know you don't want to hear this, and I don't blame you for that, but I love you. I have since fifth year, if not since we met. You're so—heroic and brave and strong and _good_ , and I know you're straight and I know you hate me and it doesn't change anything, but please, _please_ know that I love you, and that you deserve to live."

"Look who's talking," I retort, seizing on the one part of this situation I can possibly hope to handle. "I saw what you were doing when I got here, Baz."

Baz's eyes drop again. "It's not the same," he whispers. "I'm a vampire. A monster. I don't deserve to live. My mother sacrificed her life to take out as many of my kind as she could." He meets my gaze, and his eyes are shinier than they have any right to be. Also more beautiful, especially in the moonlight. "You are goodness incarnate, Simon. And you've always been right about me—I'm evil. I'll be staked when they find out what I am, so please, Snow, at least let me do this on my own terms."

That's when I choke up, for whatever reason. It's just so heartbreaking to listen to him talk about himself that way. Before I can start sobbing, I go up on tiptoes just a bit and lean forward so that I can kiss him. I capture his lips with mine, and, despite everything he's said tonight, I'm surprised when he doesn't immediately pull back. His lips are cold, but they work against mine eagerly for a moment before he leans back.

"What was that for?" he whispers.

"It's what you want, isn't it?"

"That's not what I was asking."

"I just don't want you to die."

Baz shoves me away, his hands leaving my arms for the first time in several minutes. "What, so you get to kill yourself but I don't?" He's breathing hard. "I don't want your pity, Snow. Especially not when you're in the same damn situation I am."

"Were you lying about loving me?" Damn it, why does my voice have to wobble so much?

"What? Simon, I could never," Baz says, and it sounds like a promise.

"Then"—I make a rash decision—"let me take care of you."

"What?"

I reach out my left hand and take his right one. He's got calluses on his fingers from holding his wand and playing the violin. "I don't think either of us is supposed to feel like this. I don't think this is a good place, where we are right now. And I'm not sure we're really meant to die this way, either of us. So take care of me, Baz, and let me take care of you."

"Snow. You don't mean that. Wouldn't you be glad to be rid of me?"

"Given that you're one of the two people in the world to give a shit about me? Given that you're one of the few constants in my life and I nearly lost my mind when you were gone this fall? Given that I've always loved to look at you, even though I'm just starting to accept what that might mean? No, Baz, I wouldn't be glad to be rid of you."

"Simon. Please. Don't do this to me."

"If you jump, so will I."

Baz lights a fire in his palm. "What about this?"

I gasp. "Baz, you're flammable!" Then I realize that's the point, and I say, "I'll jump."

Baz sighs. "Mutually assured destruction is supposed to work the other way around, Snow."

"Huh?"

"It's supposed to be, if you hurt me, I'll hurt you. Not, if you hurt yourself, I'll hurt myself."

"But hurting yourself _would_ hurt me," I insist.

He stares at me, mouth hanging open, for a second before recovering enough to say, "Irreparably?"

"The crucible gave us to each other," I say, because I don't know how to answer his question. "Please, can we just fulfill what it wants from us?"

"So this is about the crucible." His tone is utterly flat.

"No, Baz, I—please. I can't seem to get my thoughts in order, but the one thing I'm absolutely sure I want is for you not to die. Please, can you give me that tonight?"

"I want to give you the world, Simon, but you're asking for something very hard." He puts the fire out. "Fine. Let's go back to Mummer's House." We both stand there for a moment. Baz gestures toward the doorway. "After you," he says.

I shake my head. "After you."

Baz sighs. "I suppose we have to do this together, then." He takes my hand and starts walking toward the stairs, so I start walking that way, too. He doesn't let go of my hand all the way down the stairs or along the path back to Mummer's House. I'm glad it's after curfew, for all that there's a risk of getting caught. There aren't any other students around to judge us for holding hands. Despite the fact that I kissed Baz earlier, I'm not sure I'm ready to be seen doing . . . anything with him.

We finally get to our room. Baz shuts the door and finally lets go of my hand. We stand and face each other, and the awkwardness is palpable. "Can I trust you not to jump out the window?" he asks after a few moments.

"If I can trust you not to light yourself on fire," I reply.

"You'd be better off without me," Baz insists.

"I'd be _dead_ without you, so I don't think you mean that."

Baz takes a step toward me. We're very close together. I have to tilt my head up to look at him. "Just to be clear, Simon, I will never deserve you," he whispers. "So please, don't go falling for me. I can't let myself hold you back like that."

"You saved my life tonight, Baz. If that doesn't make you deserve me, I can't fathom what you think deserving even means."

Baz stumbles backward until his legs hit his bed and then collapses backward onto it. He covers his face with his hands, but I can hear the sobs. I surge forward, bashing my legs into his bed in my haste to join him, but then I hesitate for a moment. I've never sat on his bed before while he was in the room. Can I? Would it be an invasion of his space? But the sobbing escalates, so I flop down on the bed with him and run my hand down his upper arm.

He takes his hands away from his face, which is even more tearstained and snotty now than it was when I arrived at the observatory. Without thinking, I pull him toward me, and he presses his face into my shoulder. I'll have to do something about this shirt, but I don't care. I was going to wear it to die tonight. I can wear it to comfort Baz instead.

It takes several minutes for Baz to cry himself out, but he finally gets his breathing under control and pulls back from me just a bit. His eyes are puffy. I resist the urge to kiss his face because I don't know where the urge is coming from and I need to figure myself out before I do anything that confuses him.

"What was that?" I whisper.

"I—you're being _nice_ to me. You're all I've ever wanted and you're so far and away too good for me and I love you so much and you might not hate me and I want to die but I think I might be able to live for you and Crowley, Simon, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for being in your life and for dragging you down with me and for all the times I've hurt you, and I don't deserve your care or your forgiveness or any of it, Simon, but there's a part of me that wants to live every day trying to be worthy of you, and yes, yes, I'll take care of you if you'll take care of me. And Merlin, I'm so sorry you have to."

Now I'm the one who's crying.

"Simon—no—I'm sorry—please . . . ," Baz murmurs as he strokes my face.

"You're—Baz—please stop being sorry," I choke out. "You saved my life tonight."

"After pushing you toward the brink for years," Baz retorts.

"I did the same to you," I push back. "I've hurt you so many ways, for so many years, and you've loved me? Baz, that's horrible. That was awful of me. I'm so, so sorry."

Baz wipes my cheeks, carefully, with his thumbs. I'm still crying, so it's of limited usefulness, but I appreciate the gesture. "No need to apologize, Simon."

I cry harder. How can he be so kind to me after everything?

"Oh, Simon, I'm sorry," he murmurs. I press my face into his shoulder and cry. I'm processing Baz's and my almost-suicides; I'm mourning lost connections with the Mage and Agatha; I'm trying to sort out my feelings and let it sink in that Baz loves me. It's so, so much, and I think I need to just cry for a while.

Finally I lean back, tears spent. "Thank you, Baz," I whisper.

"It's the least I could do," he whispers back. Then he yawns.

"Time for bed, Baz," I say.

"Not if you need me," he says.

"Can we—never mind."

"What is it, Simon?" He's looking at me more tenderly than he ever has before.

"I—I was wondering if we could push our beds together and sleep togeth—cuddle. Tonight. I just don't want to be alone right now. But that's probably too much to ask. I'm sorry."

Now Baz is just staring at me. "You want to cuddle. With me."

I drop my gaze. "Sorry."

"No, Simon, don't be sorry. I just—I get to touch you?"

"Yeah," I say. "I mean, not like—well, you can hold me."

Baz nods quickly. "Right. Yeah. That's what I meant." He yawns again.

"You can take the bathroom first," I offer. "I'll work on the beds."

Baz eyes me warily. "Can I trust you not to jump into the moat?"

I think about it, and then I sigh. "Yeah. You can trust me."

"Mutually assured destruction, remember."

"Please, Baz, you deserve to live."

"So do you, Simon." He says it sharply, not tenderly.

I sigh again. "Okay, then."

Baz gets up, grabs his pajamas, and heads to the bathroom. I stand, too, and the room spins a little. I think I hyperventilated a little with the crying, and I'm probably dehydrated from all the tears and the snot, too. I don't dare use magic to push the beds together—I wouldn't even if I were feeling my best—so I carry our bedside tables to the space between my desk and the bathroom door, and then I use my whole self to shove Baz's bed toward mine. I know Baz is going to take forever in the bathroom, so I change into my pajamas out in the room, and then I flop onto my side of our combined bed. Despite the raging storm going on inside my brain, I start to drift off.

The next thing I know, Baz is poking me. "Oi. If we're sleeping in the same bed, you need to brush your teeth."

I yawn and groggily blink my eyes open. "Fine," I grumble. I get up—the room spins even more this time—and stumble to the bathroom.

A minute later, my mouth now fresh, I stumble back and fall into bed. Baz's cool arms immediately wrap around me. "Is this okay?" he whispers. I feel his breath on my neck.

"Yeah," I breathe back. "Good night, Baz."

"You know what, it might be, in spite of everything," he whispers.


	2. Baz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three weeks later, Simon and Baz talk about Baz's love confession. Baz's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was supposed to be a one-shot and then it grew. Also, talking someone out of suicide is not a great basis for a romantic relationship. I say this from experience. But I wanted to see if Simon and Baz could make it work, anyway.

**BAZ**

It’s been three weeks since the night Snow and I found each other at the tower. Our beds are still pushed together. Most nights, one or both of us has a nightmare, and we both wake up, and we hold each other until we can fall back asleep. I don’t think Snow has told Bunce everything—I’m not sure she’d ever let him out of her sight if he had—but after a few days she stopped looking confused when Snow and I walked into breakfast together every morning, so I’m under the impression he told her _something._

I never want to let him out of my sight again. It hurts like a dagger through the heart that he ever felt bad enough to want to die, and even worse to know that I contributed to his sense of worthlessness. I am living now purely out of a desire to take care of him. And yet little bits of goodness seem to be creeping into my life as well, since I decided to live. We have our first snowfall of the year, and rather than merely cursing the cold, I notice the beauty of the white blanket over the grounds. Cook Pritchard summons me to the kitchen for bread pudding after a tough exam in History. Snow smiles five days after The Night while eating lunch with Penny. Four days later, he outright laughs. 

I don’t dare hope that he’s really getting better. If I didn’t notice any warning signs before The Night, why would I be so arrogant as to assume I’d notice them now? Moments like the one when he laughed give me tiny shreds of hope, but I don’t dare believe in them. I’m not sure if I’m getting better either. I think I might be, a little. I have felt happy a couple times in the past three weeks, briefly, and that’s more than could be said about the entire five months before that. Even my siblings couldn’t cheer me up while I was stuck in my father’s house last summer, and Merlin knows being kidnapped by numpties and trapped in a coffin was no picnic either. I think I still want to die, at least most days, but knowing that my life is tied to Simon’s—however inexplicable that is—suffices to stop me from actually attempting suicide again, at least for now. 

We haven’t talked about my love confession, or the fact that he kissed me. I don’t know if we ever will. I’m fairly certain I’d rather not. He always wants to play the hero; show him anything broken and his urge is to fix it. That’s all it meant. He just wants to fix me, because that’s his nature. His words echo in my head— _I’ve always loved to look at you, even though I’m just starting to accept what that might mean_ —especially when we’re in bed and he’s sleeping in my arms. But he hasn’t mentioned anything about that since, and so neither have I. He deserves space, and the right to forget anything about anything about The Night that he wants to forget or disown. 

Finally, three weeks to the day since The Night, just as we’re getting into bed, Simon takes a deep breath and says, “You lied to me, didn’t you?”

I look at him carefully and school my voice into gentleness, not the bored drawl that comes so naturally to me. “Every time I said you were worthless, or hopeless, or unworthy. Yes, Simon, those were all lies and I’m sorry.” 

“No, I mean, that night. At the tower. When you—” Oh Merlin, he’s tearing up. He looks down, his lower lip quivering. “When you said you loved me.” 

“What?” His tears plus the dagger-like hurt of what he just said combine to make me choke up, too. “Simon, I could never.” 

“But you—” He sobs, and I put my arms around him and pull him in close. “But you—you haven’t said—said anything about it since that—that night and I—I—I—” He seems to run out of words and burrows closer into my chest. 

“Do you _want_ me to say anything about it?” My voice manages not to break until the last word.

Simon just cries for a little bit before saying, “Well, you don’t—don’t love me any—anymore, so it doesn’t matter.” 

“What gave you that idea?”

Simon pulls back, and I let him go, much though I want to keep holding him. He scoots backward onto his own bed and my heart breaks even more than it already had. Clearly this conversation isn’t going where I hoped for a minute that it would. “You know how pathetic I am,” he whispers. “How could anyone love me now? After everything? I know you _care_ , Baz, but _love_?”

I restrain myself from wiping away his tears, from kissing his face, from brushing his curls off of his forehead. “Simon, I swear to you that I love you in your entirety. The happy parts and the sad parts and everything in between. And I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. I know you’re straight and you’ll never love me back and it’s okay. You’ve proven to me that you care and that’s so much more than I ever thought I could ask for.” 

Simon fidgets with the sheets. “I’m not straight, Baz.” 

My eyes just about pop out of my head. “What?”

“I’ve known since I was . . . what, eleven? Twelve? It was my first or second summer after Watford and I was in another of those terrible care homes. One of the boys saw me watching another boy get changed and realized what was going on even before I did. He beat me up and called me terrible names. So I decided not to tell anyone that I liked boys. I mean, I knew I liked girls, too, and I already sort of had a crush on Agatha, and when I worked up the nerve to ask her out in fifth year and she said yes I thought it could just be easy. I’d marry Agatha and that would be that and I’d never have to come out to anyone. But she broke up with me and I found myself staring at you and thinking about how gorgeous you are and . . .” 

“Simon. Please don’t do this to me.” 

“Do what? Like you?”

“Get my hopes up.” Now _I’m_ the one fidgeting. 

“God, Baz, you think I would do that?”

“What are you doing, Simon?”

“I’m telling you I like you. I’m asking if I can kiss you. I’m asking if you still like me too.” 

“ _Like_ you?” I reply, because I can’t handle the enormity of what he seems to be saying to me. “Oh, Simon, we are so far beyond that point. If you really want to kiss me, by all means, go ahead.” 

He makes no move toward me, and I deflate. He says, “Baz, I need you to be honest with me. Are you only doing this because you don’t want me to die?”

I hazard a finger against his cheek, stroking down to his jawline. “I’ve had a crush on you practically since we met. I’ve wanted to kiss you since fifth year. I’ve loved you for over two years now. No, I’m not making this up to try to talk you out of suicide. And I hope I’m a good enough person that I wouldn’t want you to die even if I weren’t in love with you.” 

“You have tried to kill me,” Simon points out dubiously. 

I sigh, wincing internally. Why did past me have to be such a bully? “I thought one of us had to kill the other in the end. And there was a time when I didn’t want to be the one to die.” 

Now Simon reaches out, tentatively, and strokes _my_ cheek. “You shouldn't be. I’m the failure.” 

I stare him down. “You’re the hero. I’m a vampire.” 

“You’d be a better hero, if you gave it a try. You’re so much better than I am at everything. You’d be great at it.”

I shake my head. “Not in the slightest. I’m not noble like you. I’m not _friendly_. You _care_ about people, Snow; I’ve never mastered that.” 

“You care about me . . . right?” His voice quivers. 

“Of course, Simon. But that’s different. I’m in love with you.” It’s getting harder and harder not to call him _darling_.

“So you wouldn’t care about me if you weren’t in love with me?” He’s staring at the bedspread.

“I can’t imagine a world in which I wasn’t in love with you, so I don’t think I can answer that.” 

He looks up at me with something like wonder in his eyes. “You mean that?”

I want to kiss him. I want to kiss his lips and his face and every one of his fingers. “ _Yes_.”

His hands are on my face, and then my eyes flutter shut as his lips connect with mine. Unlike last time, I don’t feel guilty, or like I’ve conned him into anything, and so I let myself enjoy it. _This_ is what I’m choosing to consider my real first kiss. And it’s amazing. Everything I’ve ever read or heard about fireworks is ringing true. His lips are warm and soft and greedy against mine, and he seems to be drinking me in. His tongue is in my mouth, but it’s just the right amount of hesitant; he’s certainly not shoving anything down my throat. It’s far gentler and sweeter than I’d ever imagined kissing someone as impulsive as Simon Snow would be. 

It’s an eternity and no time at all until he pulls back. Before I can say anything—before I can even really process that he just kissed me and now it’s over—he whispers, “Wow.” 

“Oh?” I whisper back. Not my most inspired response, but my brain is still coming back online. 

“You’re good at that, Baz. Do you do it often?” Simon asks, sitting back a little. I can’t read his face. 

“Only in dreams,” I reply. 

Now I can read his face: relief. Before he can say anything, I say, “Don’t worry, darling, you’ve never had competition.”

“You just called me ‘darling,’” he says slowly. 

I look down and fight the urge to hide my face. “Sorry.” 

Simon takes my hand. “Don’t apologize. It’s sweet.” 

I raise his hand to my lips and kiss his knuckles slowly. He shivers. I can’t help but grin. Then I turn serious again. “What do you want, Simon?”

“Huh?”

“You said you like me. What do you want? Are we boyfriends now? Friends with benefits? Can I kiss you again? What about tomorrow? Are you going to tell Bunce? Are we going to tell people in general?”

Simon’s hand twists in mine, but he doesn’t try to get me to let go, so I don’t. “I’m a terrible boyfriend.” 

“On what planet?” I retort. 

“No, really, I am,” Simon insists. “Never once in three years of dating Agatha did it feel like I was getting things right. I never said the right things or asked the right questions or did what she wanted me to do.” 

“I think she expected you to be someone you’re not,” I reply. “I know you, Simon. I’m pretty sure I know you better than Agatha. I know you’re not always good with words and I don’t _care_. I don’t need you to be someone you’re not. I just need you to be _you_.” 

“You don’t mean that.” 

“But I _do_.”

“But communication is so important in relationships. If I can’t do that—”

I cut him off. “Simon. We both know I can understand what you mean even without words, most of the time.” 

“But what about the times you can’t?”

I look at our entwined fingers. “If you’re serious about wanting this, we’ll figure it out. Together. And if you don’t—”

“No, I do. I want this. I just—you deserve better.” 

I use the hand that isn’t holding Simon’s to caress his cheek. “There’s no one better than you.”

“Except for literally everyone. I’m hopeless, remember?”

“Simon. Darling. I never meant that.” 

“It doesn't matter. You were _right_.” 

“No I wasn’t. You may not be good at academic magic, but you’re amazing at protecting people and caring about them and coming closer than anyone else has to saving the damn world.”

“Not close enough,” he mutters. 

“You’ve still got time,” I reply. “And you’ve got me on your side, now.”

His eyes go wide. “Really?”

“Yeah, of course. What, you really thought after all of this I’d fight you?”

“It was hard to imagine that changing.” 

“Well, it’s changed. No matter what happens between us now, even if you decide you hate me, I promise not to fight you.” 

Simon squeezes my hand. “Thanks, Baz.”

“So, what do you want? Do you want to date? Was the kiss a one-time thing?”

“A one-time . . . Baz, no. I don’t do that. I wouldn’t do that to you. Yes, I want to date you. I just—I’m not eager to come out. I’m sorry; I know that’s selfish.”

I kiss his temple, gently. “That’s not selfish at all, darling. It’s okay. I’m only out to my family, anyway.” 

“Not even to Dev and Niall?” 

“Nope.” 

“Oh. Okay. Would you mind dating, like, quietly? Keeping the affection to our room and just telling Penny and maybe Dev and Niall if you feel like it?”

I brush his curls off his forehead. “Of course I wouldn’t mind, darling. Merlin, I can’t even believe you’re interested in dating me. Are you sure _you’re_ not just doing this to keep _me_ alive?” 

He leans forward and kisses my cheek. “I’m sure. I like you. I want to date you. It does help that you cared enough about me to take care of me that night on the tower, and for the last three weeks, but this isn’t about taking care of _you_.” 

I try to keep my thoughts straight. (Ha.) They’re starting to go rather fuzzy with sheer happiness, but I can’t let them, not yet. “Okay, so we’re dating. That’s good. That’s bloody wonderful. What do you want that to mean, while we’re in our room? Kissing? More than kissing?” 

Simon frowns, but I’m pretty sure he’s just thinking, not upset. “I think just kissing for now. What do you want?”

“Anything you’re comfortable with, I think,” I reply. “I’m fairly certain we’re going to run up against your limits a lot sooner than we run up against mine, but I’ll let you know if we are approaching mine.” 

Simon nods. “Okay. Good to know. Thanks.” 

“Why are you thanking me?” 

“Because you’re trying to let us have a healthy relationship. With communication and consent and stuff.” 

“Did you not have that with Agatha?” Suddenly I’m worried about him in an entirely different way than I have been for the last three weeks.

Simon sighs. “No, we did, more or less. I don’t know. We didn’t get a lot of time alone together. It’s not like anything horrible happened. We just didn’t have a lot of occasions to develop habits, good, bad, or otherwise.” 

I nod. “Okay. That’s—well, not good, but not as bad as it could be.” 

“Definitely.” 

“I want to make this good,” I say.

Simon caresses my face. “So do I. You deserve that.” 

I can’t help but duck my head. “You think that?”

He kisses my forehead. “Of course.” 

I kiss his lips. 

It’s awhile before we get to sleep.


End file.
